Finding Hope and Peace in an MRI Machine

Yesterday's "next step" in finding out exactly what's going on in my neck -- and where -- was an MRI (or "magnetic resonance imaging") scan at Johns Hopkins Hospital. We had it done there because their machinery was probably more state-of-the-art than that at our local Chester County Hospital.

Now, I had been through a CT scan and a PET scan already on this journey, so the idea of laying down on another table which then rolled inside another large doughnut-shaped contrivance for the MRI felt like it would be no big deal. Been there twice. No prob.

Ah, well.

I lay down on the table and positioned my head in a holding device, which didn't feel that cool. Then the technician and her assistant placed towels on either side of my head to keep it entirely immobilized -- which started a considerable feeling of claustrophobia. Then, they placed a mask (think Hannibal Lechter and you're not far off) over my face -- so close that it brushed against my chin. Okay, now we have a serious problem in the works. Then the table, the head-holding device, the Hannibal mask and me -- we all rolled into the tube together.

Nope. Sorry. Won't work. I didn't last 5 seconds in the tube before I pressed the "Get Me Out of Here!" button that I had been holding. And the table rolled back out of the doughnut.

(Dear reader, I hope it's clear that the only reason for my needing to wear the mask was the area of my body being imaged. If you have an MRI scheduled for your chest or arm or somesuch, the mask will not be part of the procedure. So you can breathe normally again.)

The technician and assistant took the mask off and sat me up. Rubbed my shoulders and held my hand. I asked if a sedative might be available, and was told no. I then nodded my head towards a closed closet door and asked if there might be some Jack Daniels' available there. The assistant (whose name was Sam) smiled as she shook her head no, but the two of us had to explain the reference to the technician, who spoke with a strong Eastern-European accent and might not have been in the US for all that long. Jack Daniels' we explained: whiskey.

The technician explained that I didn't need any whiskey (or "vhiskey," as she pronounced it) since I had already had a Margarita that morning. Because, she explained, "That is my name. Margarita!" And the three of us laughed.

As I lay down for a second try at the MRI and had the mask refitted, Margarita held my hand and told me, "I will hold your hand as long as you need me to. When you are ready to start, just let go of my hand." I was rolled into the tube and held her hand for maybe 15 or 20 seconds. Then let go. She also told me that I should keep my eyes closed. Which was a great suggestion delivered just the right way. Not: "Don't open your eyes." (which is a negative thing) but: "Keep your eyes closed." (which is a positive thing).

Anyway, as I let go of Margarita's hand and shortly thereafter heard the door close (meaning I was alone in the room), the panic started to come back.

But I kept my eyes closed. And the thought occurred to me, "Diane wants me to lie still." (Diane is a classmate at the Full Spectrum School, which I mean to blog about sometime soon.) And that worked! For several seconds after that, the panic subsided completely and I felt my body relaxing. When the panic started to build again, I thought "Lori wants me to lie still." (Lori being another classmate.) And pretty soon, I started through the entire class list: "Dawn wants me to lie still." "Hal wants me to lie still." and so on. I spent several minutes going back over the class list to make sure I hadn't missed anybody.

Then I started in on my juggling group: "Jack wants me to lie still." "Travis wants me to lie still."

After 10 or 12 jugglers, I started in on my Quaker Meeting: "Marina wants me to lie still." "AnnaMarie wants me to lie still."

(During my previous scan -- the PET scan -- I managed to get through the experience by just remembering that there were a lot of people who cared so much about me and wanted me to get well. But the MRI mask made this approach ineffective. The claustrophobia was lurking just much too close. I needed names and faces of individuals I could visualize to make things work.)

After a bit, Margarita let me know by way of a speaker system in the head-holding device that I was 20 minutes into the procedure -- halfway home!! I started in on the teachers and staff at West Chester Friends School: "Teacher Dottie wants me to lie still." "Teacher Matt wants me to lie still."

Now, I still knew that if I opened my eyes, all this good work would be lost -- that I would likely panic, need to be rolled out and we would have to start over again from the top. And this helped me stave off the curiosity of "What would happen if I just squinted a bit?" No, Randy. Don't go there!!!

Remarkably soon -- it seemed -- the procedure was over, and Margarita and Sam(who had also a huge help in calming me down after the first anxiety attack and prepping me for the retry) were rolling me out of the doughnut and telling me what a marvelous job I had done.

As I sat up, I told Margarita how helpful her comment about not needing whiskey had been, and she smiled. (She told me she was from Ukraine, and I told her her accent was lovely. Then she smiled again. I was probably also smiling. I forget.)

Yesterdy, I did something that I didn't think possible. I did it with the support of the Hopkins staff -- and the recollection of all the love and caring that is aimed in my direction from so many wonderful people.

Love. It's a powerful thing, dear reader. A powerful thing.